


dried ink (carved halves)

by disasterson



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Child Abuse, Dissociation, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:28:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28100931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disasterson/pseuds/disasterson
Summary: It was cloudy that day./“He thinks of the sharp gaze of his Grandfather as his voice carries with rising flames that once molded into small shapes as the sea breeze crept in and the sand welcomed an elderly man with his grandson.Thinks of the way Azula’s smiles stopped sounding the same, when Father started wearing white robes and the sharp crown that once felt so light in his hands as his Father quietly told stories of dragons that were brutal and beautiful, when Uncle Iroh came back with hollow eyes and a distance that often felt the same stretch of distance his Mother had been when she had quietly woke him and told him that she loved him before she loosened her hold and never looked back.Thinks of a pond. Thinks of a tree. Thinks of wispy feathers. Thinks of warm bread.Thinks of a knife. Thinks of the blade’s message.He wonders if his cousin chose it, wonders if it was exchanged or taken, if it’s been used before.Wonders if he knew of the poison slipped into grandfather’s drink, if he saw him survive.”
Comments: 12
Kudos: 57
Collections: best of avatar, iroh & zuko fics, zuko best boi





	1. 赤い

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Family Tree](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25288342) by [mindbending](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mindbending/pseuds/mindbending). 



> Hello, all! It’s been a long while since I’ve written fanfiction, so I figured I’d take a crack at it.
> 
> On that note, feel free to let me know if I need to change the rating or add a tag! 
> 
> Another note, the inspiration fic is listed below; super amazing and definitely recommended!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was cloudy that day.

It was cloudy that day. There had been subtle showers, from how damp the deck is that morning on the Wani, but the thin blanket of fog is as welcomed as it has been for the past two springs.

(The only way he knows it’s been two springs is from the way that Mai marks her letters with the date when she writes, the cherry blossom petals that Ty Lee sends, and the short scroll thinly reminding him of a pond no longer littered with wispy feathers.)

There is the scrape of boots against worn metal floors, groggily shifting from cots to cafeteria, from the brief solace that sleep ensures to the muddled mood of the morning. There are yawns and generous plates of indulgence in the form of steamed rice and curry from the cook.

(It tasted like the salty stormy nights that were once smoothed away by his Mother’s palms and held for him so that his hands wouldn’t burn.)

If she had been there, would she have held them then, too? Would she stand frozen in horror? Would she have screamed and cried like he did? Would she have smiled? Turned away?

(Would her face have been as blank as Father’s when he had gripped hair firmly and held him still as he cradled his cheek with a calculated flame?)

The rice is warm and sticks oddly in the roof of his mouth. It is bland and plain, but it is warm, so it anchors him in the moment, keeps him somewhat there as his Uncle sits across from him. The curry would be an easy remedy, but it was kept separate for a reason, so he listlessly pinched at bits and listened with buzzing fingers as he concentrated on the burning candles that Uncle had lit when he stepped in this morning with breakfast and saw the unmoving curve of his blanket, when the blanket was heavy in his and it slid off when he shifted to sit up, when he shifts out of bed to settle on the floor and in front of the table, doesn’t move until his uncle sat across, until two plates are set, until his uncle takes a bite, until he shifts to take another and pauses, until he tells him he could eat, until he lifts his spoon to take a bite of rice.

(The reports are in his drawer, the ink dry and the parchment crisp. There is the usual stamp and insignia, the curve of his father’s signature etched at the end, but the scroll fell past his ankles and Lieutenant Jee, who usually spoke with firm words and never forgets where to stand, had nothing to say when the brat who usually wasted a breath on a scream was silent as he stared at the endless list of names, at the division of soldiers only a few candles older.

Zuko thinks of the unfairness. He thinks of the ashes taken with the same wind that didn’t protect the ones who cherished it, thinks of a sky smeared and ruined with the flames that carried children from their cribs and caretakers from their coops and classrooms from cultivation, thinks of a gruff veteran in exile and a silent swordsman in solitude, thinks of the proud way Father speaks of a man who once coldly crushed challenges and the quiet way Uncle speaks of a man who once angrily ached always and the nervous way Mother speaks of a man who once did what he felt was right and the soft way his baby sister wonders of a man who once ate dinner with parents that didn’t speak with barbed words and a grandfather that didn’t frown.

Zuko thinks of an unmarked grave beside a tree that languidly watches an unmoving wall. He thinks of his Mother’s tears staining the letter that told them that his cousin was dead, thinks of the hushed whispers that Lu Ten’s mangled remains have already been burnt to a crisp.

He tries to think of his cousin’s voice and comes up empty.

He thinks of the clipped but hurt way his baby sister sounds when she says that Uncle Iroh didn’t try hard enough to protect him.

He thinks of the sharp gaze of his Grandfather as his voice carries with rising flames that once molded into small shapes as the sea breeze crept in and the sand welcomed an elderly man with his grandson.

Thinks of the way Azula’s smiles stopped sounding the same, when Father started wearing white robes and the sharp crown that once felt so light in his hands as his Father quietly told stories of dragons that were brutal and beautiful, when Uncle Iroh came back with hollow eyes and a distance that often felt the same stretch of distance his Mother had been when she had quietly woke him and told him that she loved him before she loosened her hold and never looked back.

Thinks of a pond. Thinks of a tree. Thinks of wispy feathers. Thinks of warm bread.

Thinks of a knife. Thinks of the blade’s message.

He wonders if his cousin chose it, wonders if it was exchanged or taken, if it’s been used before.

Wonders if he knew of the poison slipped into grandfather’s drink, if he saw him survive.

Wonders if it would have changed anything, if his grandfather had died, if his mother wasn’t sent away, if his uncle hadn’t looked away, if his baby sister hadn’t hid behind the curtains and smiles, if his father hadn’t sat with measured breaths and even tones.

Wonders how many marks he’d have then, if it would have been the knife, if it would have been the flames, if the lightning would have missed.

Wonders if there was ever a world where his family was happy, if there hadn’t been a war, if there hadn’t been anger.

Wonders if a boy hadn’t lived, if he hadn’t been one born in the winter, if one hadn’t been one born in the fall.

Wonders if it mattered anymore.)

Zuko knows there are eggshells on the floor, knows that his Uncle is speaking to him like he’s expecting him to crack, expecting him to spend the day with an endless stream of sharp and sore words that drug deep from the root of his ribs.

(He knows it’s what’s expected of him. He knows of the words that carry over the shoulders of men who had no qualms with the General but had to bow their head and fold clothes into bags when a retired General gently requested for assistance in another quest with no end in sight, had to bite their tongues with a steeled expression as a boy screamed streaks of reds and yellows, had to swallow their words the first time their commander slipped out of the cot kept in the doctor’s ward without a sound and guide tiny trembling shoulders back to bed as their prince numbly told them stories of brutal and beautiful dragons that were born lucky and of rotten and ugly dragons that were lucky to have been born, had to hold their breath the first time their commander stepped onto deck without a spool of bandages to hide ruined flesh.)

He finishes his rice and watches his Uncle’s shoulders slowly relax when he starts nudging at his plate of curry with measured movements, watches hands hold nothing but could hurt everything, watches the sea of food on his plate slowly ease into a small pond.

(He doesn’t watch his eyes. He doesn’t stare at his words, either, because the last time he did that, they were weighed down with dying embers and anchored by rushing rivers. He doesn’t stare at the crease in his brows or the gray in his hair, doesn’t want to look and see disappointed frowns or count the amount of lashes that his tutor would have given him when he didn’t meet her eyes or smile when he was told to.)

He listens to quiet words and warm tea. He listens to calm inquiries for the next course and careful conversation. He listens to the gentle click of his chopsticks and shifting napkins.

(He asks to set a course to the closest port. He tells him that they were due for restocking supplies that were needed and gathering leads that were nonexistent. He says that the crew could do as they please.)

The blanket doesn’t move off of his shoulders, even when his plate is nudged aside and set to be taken. It only remains, draped heavily across spark dusted shoulders.

(He stares at the candles. He watches the flames flicker and bounce along their wicks as the door to his cabin eases open and shut. There is only the sound of waves and the distant clattering of the pipes to keep company. There is no tug, no push and pull, no magnet he feels towards the licks of cinders and slow trickle of wax along the minutes. He stares at the candles and they do not call for him. They exist as nothing more than a source of light, a way to see, a guardian to the lost and a friend to the shadows.)

When they reach port, he takes a moment to watch from the deck. The railings are sturdy along the trim of the vessel, rows of steel that served as perches for the raven-crows and protection for the rhinos.

(Big babies, a lot of them. Needy, smelly, and vocal, no matter how many times he feeds grass and seed to huffing rough headbutts and crooning ruffled head bobs.)

The anchor sinks into clear waters and the bridge lowers onto flat wood.

(He slips back inside his room and does not answer the door or to a name that used to belong to him. When his uncle asks if he’d like to stretch his legs, if he’d like to take a walk, if he’d like a bath, if he’d like to take a look at one of the maps, he tells him, “no, thank you,” and does nothing when a hand settles on a shoulder that didn’t shrug it off, when a hand settles over hair that had been ruined by unsteady scissors, when a hand curls over another palm that had been covered in burns.)

+赤い+

That night, after the afternoon is spent perusing produce stands and the occasional shop, there is a pipa being tuned and a flute carefully wiped clean with a rag. There are also the drums that Takashi bought from a woman who had shelves of instruments and books that were happy to be held in the hands of some soul with enough coins in their pocket.

The night is welcomed with the warm waves of humidity and the swaying of melody. The moon listens to ballads of lost lovers and elegies of the spirits. The stars watch with reverence, remaining long enough to cradle their odes into the sky with welcomed acceptance. Men who hadn’t smiled in a while were subject to the catchy tunes and couldn’t be arsed to care about tapping their foot along the rhythm or join the chorus with a voice that only one’s mother would love.

That night, although it was easier to breathe, Zuko sits with his hands in his lap and his mouth in a quiet line as his foot taps with measured steps. The glass in his hand is warm, the tea coating his throat and the wind holding onto the stories.

That night, although the music was nice and the day had been nothing but peaceful, Zuko sits with the same buzzing in his hands. His grip changes, slackening enough for it to constitute as loose. Relaxed. It was a nice cup, after all, and if it shattered in his palms, it would only bring unwanted attention.

The night is alive with the glow of the fire, a small flame that was controlled and meant to provide solace in the cold. He knew every song, had memorized every word when the most he had to worry about was finding a way to stay entertained, but he did not make a sound.

The night is quiet. The wind is brisk. Every inhale is clear, fresh. Every exhale is cloudy, heavy. A few of the men have started to drift to bed, but settled around the flames were two dragons, steam drifting from their lips as the moon quietly watches the embers crackle and climb with the strength of a beetle-ant.

The night was quiet. The flames are stoked by more experienced talons, digits waving over with a satisfied exhale as the chill takes its leave. The warmth reaches enough, waves of heat resting over like a quilt, but the pulse it matches does not belong to the kit.

The night was quiet. The cup in his hands is empty and no longer warm. He stares into the flickering cinders, then up into the spotted sky, but the stars it held does not look like the shapes and spirits that Uncle told him about.


	2. human (spirit)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was cloudy that night.

人間+

It is cloudy that night. There is no dew, or moisture, or rain. There was snow that didn’t stick, wind that didn’t leave, and fire that didn’t stay.

(The only way he knows is because he is keeping the moon company, because the cup in his hands is still cold, because the flame had softened over the time that had passed. He knows it’s still there, still in tandem with his uncle’s pulse, but even the frigid frost clung to his fingers.)

The numbers stayed. They never really left, never had a place to go, so they stayed with him. They tucked beneath his skin when the room stopped spinning, when the tired weighs his eyes until he was counting the dusted freckles tracing the sky, when the door eases open and the flames blink every other second and a patient voice guides him, when a cold disc rests over his chest and listens to his heart pitter-patter with no rhythm, when voices wash over absent eyes and he counts the whispers of paper. 

(They didn’t really bother him. Numbers never changed. They didn’t hurt him, didn’t leave him, didn’t polarize him.)

He counts the branches on his chest. Counts the leaves on his knees, counts the twigs on his limbs, counts the grass on his feet.

(Counts the apples that have fallen, counts their cores when they rot, counts the seeds of the damned.)

If he could trace every path, how many would lead to his heart? Would they have traveled elsewhere? Would it have started from his fingers and end at his throat? Did it matter?

(Some of them are sensitive, but enough numbers pass for it not to hurt anymore. His hands don’t hurt as much anymore, even when the bandages are gone, even when he starts to hold things, even when they are carefully held by steady fingers and warm palms.)

The floor is cold beneath his feet and does not waver under his steps. When he steps outside, it only gets colder.

(It doesn’t hurt to climb up the ladder, doesn’t ache, doesn’t burn.)

He tries to count the number of steps, the number of rungs, the number of breaths.

He loses track.)

When he reaches the top, he feels his hair dance with the wind, wild and dry as he stares into the ocean.

(The sun is somewhere up there, the rays sharp and the face. There is the quiet hope that Agni was still listening, that he was still watching, that he was still judging, but he does not reach far enough, does not have the reach, does not want to reach. 

He thinks of seeing it somewhere far away, in a place he’ll never be able to visit again. He thinks of the clean sand beneath his feet, of the hands that held his oh, so, carefully. He thinks of a small turtle crab and a hungry sea bird, of the crashing water and the diving after. He thinks of the person who found him in the waves, of the person who saved him in the winter. He thinks of hands that were once careful, of hands that were once warm, of hands that were once kind.

He thinks of stories that were once told by his grandfather, of stories once told by his mother, stories told by his father, by his uncle, his cousin.

He tries to think of what they were about and can only think of the warmth it once gave him.

He thinks of the sad but angry way his baby sister sounded when she tells him goodbye and that she’s expecting letters.

He thinks of the reserved but distraught way his grandfather sounded when he gives him stories and that he’s visiting doctors.

He thinks of the empty but quiet way his mother sounded when she hugs him goodbye and that she’s going away.

He thinks of the unseeing but removed way his father sounded when he tells him goodbye and that he’s expecting nothing.

He thinks of the patient but aware way his uncle sounded when he asks him what he wanted and that he’s expecting nothing.

He tries to think of the calm but smiling way his cousin sounded when he holds him very close and that he’s never letting go.

Thinks of the way Azula holds his buzzing fingers and tells him sorry, when Father started wearing red armor and the sharp crown that felt so cold in his hands as his Father quietly told him stories of rotten and ugly dragons, when Uncle Iroh returned with kind eyes and a steady hold as he guides him the same way his Mother would when she would sit at the pond with him and tell him that she loved him before she loosened her hold enough for him to lean in comfortably.

Thinks of a pond. Thinks of a tree. Thinks of wispy feathers. Thinks of warm bread.

Thinks of a knife. Thinks of its message.

He wonders if his cousin cried, wonders if it hurt or ached, if it’s been used before.

Wonders if he knew of the shaken slice onto his wrists, if he saw him survive.

Wonders if it would have changed in another world, if he didn’t fail, if his mother moved sooner, if his uncle hadn’t gone away, if his baby sister couldn’t bend, if his father had felt anything other than empty hate and mended books.

Wonders how many blots of ink he’d have then, if it would have been the knife, if it would have been the flames, if it would have been the lightning.

Wonders if it was possible for a world where he didn’t exist, so that his family didn’t hurt anymore, if it was possible for a world where he didn’t breathe, so that his friend didn’t hurt anymore, if there was no war, if there was no anger. 

Wonders if a boy hadn’t lived, if he hadn’t been born in the winter, if one hadn’t been born in the fall.

Wonders if it mattered anymore.)

He knows that his room would soon be found empty. 

(He knows of the murmurs that linger beneath the floors.)

He finishes staring down and watches the waves slowly wrap around the walls of the ship when he steps onto the railing with measured breaths, watches hands hold nothing but could push him, watches the sea of stars on the horizon slowly ease into a small pond.

(He doesn’t watch his eyes. He doesn’t stare at his words, either, because the last time he did that, they were weighed down with distant memories and burned with empty caskets. He doesn’t stare at the crease in his brows or the gray in his beard, doesn’t want to look and see desperate feet or count the amount of force it would take to push him off.)

He listens to quiet words and warm voices. He listens to soft questions for the next step and careful coaxing. He listens to the gentle rasp of a voice and shifting numbness.

(He asks to be left alone. He tells them that it was the only thing he could do and there was no point anymore. He says that they’re better off without him.)

His robe does not move off of his shoulders, even when the wind carries it and settles in silence.

(He stares at the clouds. He watches the freckles flicker and blink with the time. There is only the sound of waves and the distant clatter of pieces to put together. There is no glue, no more pictures to hang up, no more boxes to pack.)

When he reaches up, he takes a moment to watch the stars. The railings are sturdy along the trim of the vessel, rows of steel that served as perches for the raven-crows and protection for the ruined. 

(Big bastards, a lot of them. Needy, stupid, vile, no matter how many times they try to fix and save him from the rotten spoiled eggs and the forgotten tainted meat.)

The human sinks into clear waters and the bridge welcomes the shriveled root.

(The spirit slips back inside his room and does not answer the door or the name that was once his. When his uncle asks if he’d like to talk, if he’d like to take a walk, if he’d like a bath, or if he’d like to take a moment to breathe, he tells him, “no, thank you,” and does nothing when a hand settles on a shoulder that didn’t stop trembling, when a hand settles over hair that had been ruined by unsteady hands, when a hand curls over another palm that had been covered in burns.)

幽霊+

That night, after the afternoon is spent patiently promising stories and the occasional stars, there is a paranko being tapped and a fue carefully wiped clean with a rag. There is also the daiko that Touya bought from a woman who had shelves of ink and books that were happy to be held in the hands of some soul with enough care in their palms.

The night is welcomed with the cold waves of horror and the swaying of misery. The moon listens to ballads of lost lovers and elegies of the spirits. The stars watch with reverence, remaining long enough to cradle their odes into the sky with welcomed acceptance. Men who hadn’t smiled in a while were subject to the catching tales and couldn’t be asked to care about traitorous thoughts fixed along the reason or join the chorus with a voice that only one’s father would love.

That night, although it was easier to breathe, the spirit sits with his hands in his lap and his mouth in a quiet line as his fate is tied with mistaken stress. The cup in his hand is cold, the water comforting his throat and the wind holding onto the stories.

That night, although the music was nice and the day had been nothing but peaceful, the spirit sits with the same buzzing in his hands. His grip changes, slackening enough for it to constitute as loose. Relaxed. It was a nice cup, after all, and if it sparked in his palms, it would only bring unwanted attention. 

The night is alive with the glow of the fire, a large flame that was concerned and meant to provide safety in the cold. The dragon knew every song, had memorized every word when the most he had to worry about was finding a way to stay effervescent, but he did not make a sound.

The night is quiet. The wind is brisk. Every inhale is clear, fresh. Every exhale is cloudy, heavy. A few of the men had remained at a respectable perch, but around the flames was a dragon and a spirit, steam drifting from their lips as the moon quietly watched the embers crackle and climb with the strength of a buffa-dillo.

The night was quiet. The flames are settled by more experienced talons, digits waving over with a shaky exhale as the chill takes its leave. The warmth reaches enough, waves of heat resting over as a quilt, but it is never enough.

The night was quiet. The cup in his hands is empty and no longer cold. He stares into the flickering cinders, then up into the spotted sky, but the stars it held does not offer the same safety and solace that Uncle brings to the spirit.


	3. 01

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a spirit gets a haircut from a dragon.

It is cloudy that morning. He isn’t sure if there’s any fog or dew or rain, but he’s sure that there was a bit of snow, a little bit of a breeze, and enough warmth to soothe a soul.

(The only way he knows it’s warm is because he is keeping the candle company, because the cup in his hand is warm, because the flame had softened over the time that had passed. He knows it’s still there, still in tandem with his Uncle’s pulse, and even the kind kindle settled in his knuckles.)

He stayed in bed that day. He almost stays in bed most days, until the door eased open a bit, until the candle wicks burned, until the murmurs were too much. But that day, even though the door eased open softly, even though the candle wicks burned quietly, even though the whispers were too meek, he stayed in bed that day.

(They didn’t really bother him. They never changed. They never hurt him, never left him, never tried to tear him apart.)

He counts the bristles of his comb. Counts the locks and the knots, counts the tangles and the layers, counts the seconds and the days.

(Counts the apples that have been found, counts their cores when they roll, counts the seeds of the dead.)

If he could trace every point, how many would it have taken to finish? Would they have connected elsewhere? Would it have started from the string and ended at the thread? Did it matter?

(Some of the time, it feels tangled up, but enough passes for it to separate without issue. His own unfurl from time to time, even though he feels terrible for his tangles trembling tight around patient fingers, even when the brush is gone, even when he snips the hair tenderly, even when the spirit is carefully held by steady fingers and warm palms.)

The floor looks like it is cold but it is steady beneath his uncle’s feet, so he isn’t worried about steps wavering. When he steps outside, the spirit only feels colder.

(It doesn’t hurt to crumple it into loose knots, doesn’t leave tiny aches, doesn’t leave tiny burns.)

He tries to count the number of snips, the number of ribbons, the number of braids.

(He loses track.)

When he reaches the tips, he feels his hair drift with the time, worked down until he is staring into the ocean of hair.

(The scissors are somewhere up there, the razors sharp along the fingers. There is the quiet hope that Agni was still looking, that he was still waiting, that he was still listening, but he cannot see, cannot wait, cannot listen. 

He thinks of his mother’s hair curtained over shoulders, thinks of his baby sister’s chubby fingers grasping tightly made ponytails, thinks of his cousin’s calloused fingers gently combing through featherlight curls, thinks of his father’s nails carding through tufts of fringe, thinks of his uncle’s careful fingers, of his grandfather’s hesitant fingers. He thinks of seeing it, somewhere far away, in a place he’ll never be able to visit again. He thinks of the comb settled in his palms, of the hands that held them oh, so, carefully. He thinks of a small tangle between brushes, of the retraction and the swaying, of the patterns and paths traced listlessly. 

He thinks of the separation. He thinks of the slow movements. He thinks of the smooth rubs against his scalp.

He tries to think of who the hands belonged to. 

He thinks of Azula’s ribbons and how soft they felt beneath their fingers.

He thinks of the seasoned hands and the way his grandfather meticulously parted.

He thinks of Mother’s soft brush and the stories she would tell him.

He thinks of correcting tugs and the satisfied feeling of being a doppelgänger.

He thinks of his cousin loosening the topknot so that his neck didn’t burn.

He thinks of cold paste and careful combing.

He thinks of the listless streams of ink, paths carved in stained lines, permanently etched into existence. Thinks of the broad rivers, of the fluid streams, of the cold certainty engraved in the rocks.

He thinks of a garden, of the pond inside, of the tree standing over protectively, of fluttery and damp feathers, of crumbs and soft dough.

He thinks of the molded hilt. Of the message sliding past the rocks as red followed its path.

He hopes his cousin wasn’t drowning, when he died; the lungs weren’t meant to cradle clotted crimson. He hopes that it didn’t hurt, didn’t ache. He hopes that he was gone before he was crushed.

Did he know that’s where he would die? Did he know that’s where the spirit wants to go?

Would he wait for him? Or was he already gone?

The spirit knows that it was inevitable for humans to die, for mothers to leave, for sisters to hide, for fathers to hurt, for cousins and grandfathers and sons and uncles to cave in.

The spirit knows that he can’t remove the stains, no matter how much he scrubs and scrapes. He knows that the only way to be rid of the mistake is to either burn it to a crisp or shatter into sparks. 

The spirit knows that the only way of fixing things is to burn it, so that it would all be gone; everything. Everything. 

There was a dragon with beautiful wings, brutal but boisterous; he belonged in the air, far from the burned and the broken. 

The spirit didn’t matter anymore.)

The mirror that Uncle hands him is cold. When the spirit stares down into it, he can see the charcoal feathers, can see the smoke dwindle, can see the ashes spread.

(When his uncle smiles at him, the reflection hesitantly, unsurely, awkwardly smiles back.)

The ocean is led south, gathered and collected by the dragon; it pours smoothly and steadily into the garbage pail, spiraled and sanctified, free from the burden of being attached to the spirit. It is still dark with its demons, but it is free.

(The dragon never pushed the spirit to leave the ship. He worried for him, wanted what was best for him, but he didn’t push him; on the days the spirit didn’t move, couldn’t move, he was there beside him, hands guiding and voice kind.)

In another world, in a different place, his hair is cut three times.

(The third beside a shifting river, the second beside a shaking nurse, the first beside a sizzling hand.) 

In this world, someplace elsewhere, his hair is cut three times.

(The third with help, the second with haste, the first with hate.)

The amount is the same, across the universe, but maybe there was less in others. Maybe there was a place that existed, a place where there had been none at all. Maybe there were more.

Or, maybe, this was what it was always meant to be.

(The spirit believes he deserved every last one of them. If the dragon knew, it would crush him, so the spirit doesn’t spill a word, doesn’t spit a sentence.

The dragon knows, anyway, and it crushes him.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that tomorrow is a better day for you.


	4. 02

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dragon protects a little lost soul.

It is cloudy that morning. There isn’t much fog, or dew, or rain; the dragon was sure, however, by the ache in his tendons that the day was expecting a bit of snow, a little bit of a breeze, and perhaps enough warmth to settle a spirit.

(He wasn’t patient, once upon a time; his father sought to settle his fingers, first under the watchful gaze of a bitter elder who saw the golden hue settle in the west, then under steady plans, kept the flame strong. He knows it’s there, feels it in rhythm with the sky’s breath, and even he knew of the danger in his genes.)

His charge stayed in bed that day. He stayed in bed most days, until the metal was nudged with a crack, until the candle wicks bloomed, until the mumbling trailed off. But that day, even though there was no rough croak, even though the flames were not bright, even though the dragon kept his voice low, the boy stayed in bed that day.

(The boy didn’t seem to mind the stories. They calmed him. They never hurt him, never panged or tried to silence him early.)

He counts the breaths of his charge. Counts the pauses and the hitches, counts the trembles and the tremors, counts the hours and the weeks.

(Counts the peaches underneath the keep, counts the pits when they collect, counts the roots of the crops.)

If there was a way to have known, how much time would it have taken to remove the rot? Would it have started from the garden and ended at the thorns? 

(Some of the time, tiny shoulders are tense, but the marks begin to fade without issue. The tension eases from time to time, even though the empty doesn’t fade from amber orbs, even though the burns scab and patch, even when earthquakes erode the essence of the hatchling, even when the static ripples and the water settles.)

The floor is a bit frisky but it is steady beneath the general’s feet, so he isn’t worried about stumbling. When he steps outside, the dragon can feel the frost in his lungs.

(The boy often grabbed at tufts and tangles, often yanked and ached, often sparked and shook.)

He tries to count the number of clips, the number of bandages, the number of ropes.

(He loses track.)

When the boy tugs, hair sticks and coils around fingers, worked down until the dragon has pulled his palms away.

(He is careful of the shears, blades sharpened along the fire. There is the quiet hope that Agni was still looking, that he was still waiting, that he was still listening; the dragon couldn’t see him, but he prayed.

He thinks of the scrolls his tutors would unfurl as they told him the importance of hair, thinks of his father guiding his palms over the golden mineral, thinks of his mother washing his scalp, thinks of his baby brother pulling his hair into messy topknots, thinks of his grandfather’s watchful eyes over precise rituals, thinks of the scrolls he’s found in the crannies. He thinks of reading them, somewhere far away, in a place he knew he figured he would never be able to visit again. He thinks of the comb held in the priest’s palms, of the hands that held them oh, so, reverently. He thinks of a small twist between branches, of the rhythm and the swaying, of the patterns and paths traced listlessly.

He thinks of the separation. He thinks of the careful movements. He thinks of the smooth rubs against his scalp.

He thinks of who the hands belonged to.

He thinks of Ozai’s fingers and how soft they felt beneath talons.

He thinks of the seasoned hands and the way his grandfather meticulously planned.

He thinks of his mother’s soft touch and the stories she would tell him.

He thinks of correcting taps and the satisfied feeling of being a danger.

He thinks of loosening his son’s topknot so that his neck didn’t burn.

He thinks of cold paste and careful combing.

He thinks of the timeless streams of ink, paths carved in structured lines, permanently etched into existence. Thinks of the rivers, of the filling peace, of the cold comfort engraved in the pebbles.

He thinks of a garden, of the pond inside of it, of the tree standing over protectively, of damp fins and scales, of crumbs and soft dough.

He thinks of the molded hole. Of the message sliding past the rivulets as points followed its rules.

He hopes his mother wasn’t hurting, when she lived; the body wasn’t meant to cradle clumped crime. He hoped that it didn’t ache, didn’t hurt. He hopes that she was gone before she was covered.

Did he know that’s where his wife would die? Did he know that his son would eventually follow?

Would he wait for him? Or was he already gone?

The dragon knows that it was inevitable for mortals to die, for mothers to love, for siblings to hide, for fathers to hurt, for grandfathers and sons and nephews to cave in.

The dragon knows that he cannot remove the marks, no matter how much he tries to talk and weave it away. He knows that the only way to let it go is to atone and move forward.

The dragon knows that the only way of fixing things is to burn and cleanse the sins and cinders. Everything; everything.

There was a dragon with beautiful wings, brutal but boisterous. He belonged in the air, but he couldn’t stay in the clouds.

The dragon hasn’t dreamt in a while.)

The mirror that he hands the boy is cold. When the boy stares down at it, he watches his reflection stare back, can see the smoke dwindling, can see the dust settling.

(When he tries a smile, the boy smiles back.)

The raven locks are gathered and collected, carefully pulled together by the same hands that had pulled them apart; it is smooth when it pools in the basin, uneven and uniform, free from the weight of their ancestors. It is still dark with its demons, but it is free.

(The dragon never pushed the boy to leave the ship, but he did try to help him out of bed. He worried for him, wanted what was best for him, but he did not push him. On the days the boy did not move, could not move, the dragon settled in the chair beside the cot, voice kind in some pauses and silence soothing in others.)

In another world, in a different place, his hair is cut three times.

(The first in a searing hold, the second in a sacrificial nature, the third in a sailing habitat.)

In this world, someplace elsewhere, his hair is cut thrice.

(The first with hate, the second with haste, the third with help.)

The amount is the same, across the universe, but maybe there was less in others. Maybe there was a place that existed, a place where there had been none at all. Maybe there were more.

Or, maybe, this was what it was always meant to be.

(The boy believes he deserved every last one of the beatings. If the boy knew how wrong he was, it would confuse him, so the dragon doesn’t spill a word, doesn’t spit a sentence.

The dragon ought to, the coward, and it crushes him.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the boy knew, he would not know how to feel.


	5. cast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A crew of ruffians observe from afar.

They’re not quite sure how they would fit into the story, yet here they were; veterans of different backgrounds, different families, different people, stationed on a ship that rattled on good days and purred on the bad ones.

(They weren’t sure how many there were, if there were equal amounts, whether there were more bad than good, or vice-versa.)

That evening, always quiet, wasn’t too sunny, wasn’t too chilly. There was the right amount for some of the crew to feel the warmth of the rays, the sturdy waters, the metal beneath their feet.

(Takashi, the nurse, didn’t seem to see what the big deal about the evening was, but he didn’t mind if it meant making sure that the brat was still breathing.)

The air was still cold, though; no matter how much the sun shines, it does not hide the ice caps that have started to peek over the horizon.

(It’s easier to see their breaths now, with how low the temperatures have been dropping. Some days, they try to trace the shapes in the clouds and in the frost. Other days, they try to count the amount of times the general insists on another pot of tea or soup or something warm for the prince to eat.)

That evening, there are no instruments to gather on deck. There is no drum to bang, flute to clean, pipes to sing. 

(Some nights, they played so that they could leisurely pass the time. Others, they did it so that the nights didn’t feel so long. Some twilights, they watch the fire rise and dance as stories and jokes are exchanged across the circle. Others, they keep their voices low and the fire quiet as they keep the sundown moments from overtaking the hour.

They worry for him. They call him a brat, sure, and yes, they thought he was like the rumors say the prodigy princess had acted when she had been brought into the academy for the first time, that he screamed and spat reds and yellows because he was a stuck up royal worm who knew nothing of war and struggle and pain, that the general was either following after a lost cause or following after a hopeless endeavor involving an airbender or waterbender or some fantasy that tore them from their homes at the end of the day - but they also saw the yelling ripped from a throat, the bruises and cuts and burns, that sounded like it had been used to nothing but screaming, had screamed since birth in pain, in hurt, in rage, in fear.)

That night, the northern lights tear across the sky in ribbons, dancing along the depths of the darkness as the stars and clouds keep the hues company. When the music, if there is music, when there is music, dwindles, the wind and the snow quietly sings to them.

(That was not to say they enjoyed it much when the boy was quiet, either; those with their name drawn from the bin or traded or tossed were blindsided and bent and broken as they watched bandages get bludgeoned with blood and listened to screams get settled into silent sobs and grew tired of the ways that the wandering around brought the worry to the warrior and the wither to the wounded as talons scratched nervously and toes slipped off of railings.)

That night, the stars watched as they always did, watched soldiers and sons and daughters and children and adults as they watched for the people they worried for. That night, all faces of the moon and waves of the ocean listen as the clouds and the wind carry stories of those they loved and those they lost and those they longed and those they loathed.

(They tried not to loathe often, but it was hard when there were lords who burned children, when there were admirals or captains or whatever the fuck title they held who spoke with sneers or smirks about stories of a little dragon who was rightfully sacrificed, was rightfully crucified, was rightfully crushed into the tiny weakling the snickers laughed about.

They tried not to loathe, especially the general, who had to swallow his anger and grief and hollowness as he watched over a marked creature who was unfortunately living as a curse and a cretin and a child above all, who tried to muster the energy to get out of bed and forget about the son he buried as he guides the nephew he left, who read every letter that was marked by the stains of script and character as the scrolls told him of girls who missed the only boy who didn’t treat them like husks or hauntings or harmonies without separation or sight or sound, told him of fathers who tried to write to dragons about repentance and retribution and revenge, told him of mothers who tried to claw her way out from the keep and tried to knit ropes and rebellions and rumors of hatchlings who spat nothing but hubris, nothing but haughtiness, nothing but hatred.

They tried not to loathe, but it was difficult not to, when there were tremors and shakes and earthquakes that wracked a land that tread nothing but appalachian mountains and unsteady waters as the awful mutters and uneasy wavers break nothing true that laid a web that echoed and shattered and tore through weak windows of time, that left the young commander of the ship dizzy and disoriented and dazed.

How could they not loathe when there were days where the screams or the silence or the sad was just too much?)

That night, no one sleeps. When they do, whenever it is, whether it’s in a cot or mattress or blanket, it is with heavy lids and heavy breaths and heavy sighs. The stars do not fade until the sky changes colors, changes shapes, changes paths; the moon does not leave until the sun has eased up the edge of the earth and tells her that it is time to rest.

(Agni tried not to look, tried not to listen, tried not to love, but it was hard when he’s only ever wanted to learn of his people, his pride, his pack, only ever wanted to lead the lonely and the loathing, only ever wanted to leave behind the lost and the lackluster, only ever wanted to nurse his children, his pups, his pulses, into the beating warmth that the sun offered to him.

Tui thinks it is interesting, thinks it is a shame. La tries not to weep, tries not to wail.)

That morning, the ice has settled in the horizon, stiff bricks that stick wedged in the middle of the waters, still breaking through sickly wind and morning dew drawing forth the milky flakes of snow and fire.

(One of the cooks, Mei Long, has started taking to making a pot of hot chocolate every morning, taking care to keep their steps light and actions faint as they settle a jar on the counter every dawn, coaxing warmth into glass to provide calming ripples of peace into the bones of the warriors and the weary.)

That morning, there are yawns that are of the norm and of the average as the ruffians and the rogues and the brave trudged through thin walls and cold halls and metal lines.

(They tried to find solace in the quiet; if it meant no crying, no screaming, no scratching and thrashing and shrieking, then it meant mornings that were held up by the sun and the smoke and the slush as they drifted and dragged and drew through the fog.)

Some mornings, they try to ease a routine; they scrape the chill out of the parts and pipes, the rust out of the pieces and pictures, the stains out of the plans and pits of putrid pain and puss and paste.

(They tried not to listen to reports of long lost souls getting crushed and frozen and beaten and burned to a crisp for a nation that was held by an old man who did not have a father who cared for the children he bore and stole from the cribs of the church that held cremated caskets and cold corpses, held by a slight younger man who did not have a son to hold or a nephew to host a hope for the holy and the helpless, held by a young man who did not care for the children he bore or the chambers he held, held by a little boy who did not have peace of mind or soul to healthily rule with steady palms.)

The ship is pulled into shore, but there is no movement made to lower the bridge or shamble through the port; the weather held them as much as the cocoa held them, but there was not much of a mood to stroll through the market or the bridge or the balcony. 

(The railings are stared at with rigor and routine like rag dolls on a shelf, like porcelain dolls on a stand, like wooden dolls on a pyre. The dragon keeps his gaze on it every now and again, if only for the fact that the morning and afternoon is spent watching after his charge.)

There is a certain comfort that is attempted to cover the cavalry of chargers and careful and kind soldiers, knights, protectors; the engineer, Hoshi, and the mechanic, Nori, ensure that the heat distributed evenly and comfortably across the vessel so that limbs wouldn’t tremble as much, so that fingers wouldn’t tangle as much, so that breaths wouldn’t shake as much.

(Hoshi did not care for those younger in his station, and Nori did not fancy looking after distracted and dazed dragons, but when a young, distracted, and dazed looking hatchling silently stumbled upon their work at the early morning and did not fuss, did not scream, did not spit or shake or spout a word as he watched calloused fingers and careful digits calculated the number of squeaks and creaks the pipes made as the number of spaces and times where they equally could not measure the way metal easily mended underneath enough pressure, underneath enough power and precision and pain, enough fruition and fire and fear, tear and touch and torture.)

The bandages are dark, but more with time than with short time spent with salve and stitches and shushed as a sword is quietly guided into a basin where the water is warm and the scrubbing is careful as the metal is taken after and cleansed.

(It does not mean that the marks go away. Rather, it does not mean that the blade is fully cleansed, is fully carved and clear and comforted as the dragon settled in a chair that sat in the west as he carefully and gently and quietly clipped and cleaned with careful and quiet movements.

The charge does not speak or shout or whisper back at the water or the weather or the way the dragon spoke calmly of boats that sailed to the ends of the earth, from the beginnings of the world, for the stars and the souls and those in need of salvation, in need of structure, in need of safety and sanction and saprophytic static that needed settlement and sensitive and sanctity given to a little soldier, a little soul, a little small thing.)

The towel is just as warm when the water subsided and the waves quieted and the wind settled and the swaying of the sails stopped in favor of stationing for a storm of blustery and brisk and blistering waves that was sure to wrack them in the horizon.

(They come across different ships of different sizes; some are of the same material, made of the same iron and blueprint and structure, others are almost strangers, familiar enough to recognize that there is something separate in the way the blue orbs and poetic justice, the green cuts and precise justice, the orange peeled and peaceful justice.

The blue moon and coats and quiet that settled among the colder waters watched with a weariness and a worn look of war that either meant avoidance or retribution.

The green moss and grass and vines that wrapped securely around sturdy dirt and metals and crystals watched with a readiness and a sharp look of war that either meant reservation or revenge.

The orange rinds and peels and guards have been run down into a crisp, have been buried into the dust, have been ripped apart for the seeds.

The red blood and water and tears have been wracked along the roots, have been staining the bark and branches, have been chipping away at logs and leaves as the dawn burned into dusk.

The in-between runs even, runs over, runs away. It lingers, loves, lies, loses. There is everything, there is nothing, there is something well, there is something wrong. It pulls in the pure, pushes the issue, separates the present, sewed together the future. It lured in the koi and nursed the lotus as the petals and leaves bloomed and burned into ashes and ascension.

A child lies in the in-between. Several children do. If they belong elsewhere, belong otherwise, they meet and belong all the same, along the same path, the same fate, the same destiny and destruction and despair that the pitiful and the pious and the poor all meet and share and hold.)

The lieutenant looks over the maps, often. He also looks over the clouds, over the stars, over the waves and the whistles and the wind that guided their sails. He looks over the moon and listens to the sun and feels the water lead them through the voyage and the viceroy and the victims wracked among uneven hands and paths and limbs.

(The lieutenant tried not to, prayed, protested, begged, pleaded, dreaded, worked to avoid obtaining a shift where he had to look after a distant and dazed dandelion of an egg that had hatched but had been cracked at some time, in some place, had been broken and burned and molded and ruined for the purpose of ruining and molding and burning and breaking bones that had wanted nothing to do other than hold pride, hold strength, hold love amongst the clan of dragons that were meant to keep him safe but have done nothing but break and burn and mold and ruin.

A boy leaves behind his bedroom, dust settling on the sheets and ashes staining the halls, another lies beneath his bed, dust sparked on the shoulders and ashes staining the hope.

The lieutenant does not have a son, does not have a nephew. He has a niece, though, and a younger brother, an older sister, a mother with crass words and soft fingers, a father with sharp words and guarded walls. He has a cousin who had kids that held onto the cloth of his shoulder, held onto the crest of his hand, held onto the comfort of his stories. He had a home, had a family, had a clan of snakes and lizards and birds who stuck by and stuck close in his head.

A boy wandered from his bed, had wandered down the halls in the early crack of dawn, had silently looked over the maps that lay unrolled and untouched among the tables. A lieutenant watches with a weary and distant stare as the boy listlessly stared into marked waters and lands he could and could not touch.

He never looks at the islands settled on the far left of the map, never searches for names and towns and settlements that would provide a particular amount of comfort or control or centered energy that could lull him into solitude and peace. Instead, he stares into the waters, stares into the stars, stares at the clouds and the sky and the sun with an inkling of interest and hope and despair.

The lieutenant thinks of his den, thinks of the home he’s made in his heart in the tiny islands on the eastern edge of the mountains, a village among waters that were stained with sludge and slush and sin. He thinks of the way his father’s fingers bend, thinks of the way his mother’s hair grays, thinks of the way his sister’s bags weigh, thinks of the way his cousin in laws and siblings and parents and tiny hands ask if he thinks everything is going to be okay.

The lieutenant answers in silences and in searches. The boy offers in silences and in searches. 

The lieutenant looks away in a moment. The boy falls in a minute.)

The morning welcomes the fog. The afternoon welcomes the flames. The evening welcomes the fireflies.

(Blue creeps into the sky, never fades, never falls apart or pulls away or loosens the threads that tied everything together. It painted, it spread, it weeped, it stretched and striked and scattered across the world with a resolute nature, a reserved nature, a responsible nature.)

The morning welcomes the dew. The afternoon welcomes the dust. The evening welcomes the dusk.

(Green crawls along the terrain, some of the time, never seems to fade away or pull apart or loosen the thimbles that everything together. It painted, it spread, it burned, it stretched and striked and shattered across the world with a rigid nature, with a rough nature, with a resilient nature.)

The morning welcomes the sun. The afternoon welcomes the clouds. The evening welcomes the moon and the stars.

(Orange bleeds on the mountain trails and temple walls and empty hallways that once cultivated farms of peaches and people and patrons and packs that roamed the earth and stretched across the fields and the planet and the stars that held the patterns and peace among lingering spirits and souls.)

The morning welcomes the sun. The afternoon welcomes the rays. The evening welcomes the dusk and the dust of ashes.

(Red clings to nails and talons and claws that drug and trudged and slain across lands that once bore fruit and cultivation, that once held safety and sanction and solitude, that now held a stain of rust and blood and salvation that promised nothing good, that now held a scorched bloodline and a stained root and sins that promised everything unwell.)

The burns breathe a bit that day. The clouds strewn across the canvas breathe a bit that day. The bandages rest in a cabinet a bit that day. 

(There are no blades in sight. No candles or knives or railings left alone. Blankets replace blunt edges and warmth is brought in modest flames.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the boy knew, he would not know what to say.


	6. blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A spirit starts to stir.

The early evening welcomed the tired and the taken, the mid evening welcomed the haggardly and the halves, the late evening welcomed the empty and the masks.

(The ocean held the ships steady, held them shaken still, held the vessels and ventures amongst the stars and starboard as single, filed lines; as single, filed paths. 

The wolves that roamed the snow and all waters have watched the world at it’s prime and at it’s primordial. The leader of the pack once watched the world at the top of the hill with his mother, building forts and castles and homes that nestled families and kindled no unkind vermin. 

Hakoda watched the world, late that night, far away from home and ached something awful.)

The early evening guides the sun from view, the mid evening guides the warmth into stomachs, the late evening guides spirits into blue.

The boy did not try to jump from the railing again. 

(Not right away, at least. Instead, after long and measured talks between a carefully quiet dragon and a carefully quiet spirit, he stays beneath his blankets. 

He does not watch the sun, nor does he feel it leave the horizon, but he watches the colors of his wall shift. The early evening leaves, yellows bleeding from the oranges as the ship quietly rattles and does not move a muscle. The mid leaves, pinks bruising from the purples as the dragon quietly talks and does not move his chopsticks. 

The late welcomes, drowning him in shades of blue. 

He slips from his bed. He hides beneath cloth, beneath bandages and masks and shadows, as he silently blends into the walls and travels along the shore with quiet feet.)

The early evening almost brings in snow, the mid evening almost brings in serenity, the late evening almost brings in separation.

(The boy wandered along the structured row of woods, the promised boardwalk, across the splintered branches of time; the path of the roots, the placed booths, that sat empty, and he did not touch the wares or the waves or the wood of the roofs.)

The early evening welcomes the village, the mid evening welcomes the villagers, the late evening welcomes the spirits.

(The boy is not really a spirit. He dresses like one, talks like one, exists like one, so he might as well be one.)

There aren’t many others out. 

The guard is out, and he is stationed at the door; the lieutenant is out, he is stationed in the cockpit; the engineer is out, he is stationed beside the pipes; the cook is out, he is stationed beside the knives.

(They tried not to worry, tried not to get rustled or clipped or stressed about a boy who was most likely in his bed and not shifting through the halls or through the roofs or through the railings. 

They were certain that he was asleep, so they did not check his room to see if he was beneath his blankets, did not notice a figure moving in the shadows of the halls or the ceilings, did not notice the silent boy walk across the boardwalk with listless steps, did not know of the glint in his hand, of the thin razor slice precision the iron blade held, the knife of empty words that his Uncle gave him before everything went wrong, of dim and clammy palms that ached something awful.)

There aren’t many people out. 

The town’s owner sat at his porch, gaze focused dimly on the hills; his wife stood at the top of the hill, gaze focused listlessly on the waters; some of the other visitors traversed quietly through port, gaze focused firmly on the barter.

(They tried not to loathe. 

They tried not to judge, tried not to see the boy only for the mask hiding his face or the bow of his head or the listless shuffle he carries himself with or the quiet shambling that leads him across worn boards and past war torn villagers. 

Some see the sharp blade and a masked stranger with wariness, with alarm, with fear. Some see him as a danger.

Sometimes, they’ll pair it with his sunburnt eyes and talk to him as though he is a bug to be squashed, a roach that was stuck on the ceiling of their establishment that they had to deal with until someone came and bashed his shell in, until someone came and held him down or tied him with metal chains or put him out of his misery.

Some see only the bandages wrapped thickly firm around his arms, look away, look back, and understand the way he keeps his gaze averted and his mouth quiet, understands that words kept blunt and straightforward were the same words drawn from a strange, shaky boy with no hope.

Other times, they treated him like he was an omen, like he was something to be avoided, something to talk about under a hushed breath, something to purge.

Most of the time, they see a spirit without a purpose.

All of the time, they see a child without a home.)

In a booth, at the end of the second row, there is a husband and a wife. The pair are merchants, by duty and sacrifice; alongside them are their children, helpers by sacrifice and expectation. 

They sell fruit, sell vegetables, sell the fur gathered from their koala-sheep and the alpaca-yaks, sell books and scrolls that used to comfortably rest on heirloomed bookshelves made by hardworking hands and loving families.

(Atsushi watches the kid with a stern eye. 

He tries not to think of his eldest, who is eyeing the lad’s knife with an interest, tries not to think of his youngest, who is eyeing the the lad’s mask with an interest, tries not to think of his wife, who is eyeing the lad’s knife held hands with an ache.)

The boy asks for a peach, with a hesitant point of a finger. 

Atsushi asks for the knife, with a clipped tone and a hand curling tightly at his side.

The boy silently, shakily sets down a gold piece. 

Atsushi quietly lets out a shaky huff through his mouth.

(Michi watches the kid with a held breath. 

She tries not to think of her eldest, who uneasily shifts through his feet and stands with stiff shoulders, tries not to think of her youngest, who uneasily twists her fingers and tucks hair behind an ear, tries not to think of her husband, who uneasily stares at the knife and traces the inscription with an eye.)

The boy asks for a carrot, hand curled at his side and voice small. 

Michi asks for the knife, quiet but honeyed voice sturdy.

The boy silently, slowly sets down another gold piece. 

Michi swallows past a lump stuck in her throat.

(Kishi watches the kid with quiet eyes. 

He tries not to think of his baby sister, who anxiously folds her mangled hands behind her back and watches her books and scrolls fixedly, tries not to think of his mother, who anxiously closes her hands at her sides and watches the boy firmly, tries not to think of his father, who anxiously furrows his brows and watches the boy carefully.)

The boy asks for a coat. Kishi asks for the mask.

The boy takes the mask off. Kishi takes in a breath and does not know how to let it go.

(Tame blinks curiously when the boy carefully removes the mask from his face. 

She tries not to think of the way pink and red patches spread across the skin of their hands like bloody fields of fire lilies, tries not to think of the way his fingers tremble and his cloudy eyes avert like he was afraid of breathing wrong, tries not to think of the way they both share marks of hate through the splattered burns on their palms and smeared scars on their face and shattered attempts on their lives. 

She watches her older brother’s eyes soften with understanding and carefully extend his hand, palm up and patient as the mask is placed with reverence, watches her father carefully lower his head, gaze dipped onto the apples and oranges as he quietly gathers a peach beside the plums and hands it to the boy, watches her mother carefully release her grip, unfurling her hands as she quietly gathers three carrots.)

The coat that manages to fit nicely also fits comfortably, a size larger than what would have fit perfectly.

(The boy wasn’t perfect, didn’t have perfect, didn’t deserve perfect, and it was clear. 

Quietly, the boy misses his little sister. Silently, he wonders if she missed him. Emptily, he knows that it was impossible; she missed the company, maybe. Or the playmate. 

Hollowly, he accepts that she is better off without him.)

The boy asks for a book. Tame asks for the knife.

(Nothing happens. 

A beat passes. Another. A book is not given, a knife is not set. Rather, two marked children stare at each other; the boy, wide-eyed and pale; the girl, wide-eyed and curious.

Somewhere, in the between, there is a held breath. Faint. Fearful.)

The boy sets down a gold piece. Tame stares at him.

(He supposes, after a long moment of thought, that he didn’t deserve it. It would be a waste, he thinks, to keep the knife. He was too stupid, too weak, too insignificant; perhaps if he was someone more important, someone who could remember what his cousin’s voice sounded like, someone who could manage the simplest of tasks.

Like being a good son.)

The boy silently, spiritlessly gives her the knife. Tame silently, shakily gives him a book.

(That night, a peach was bitten into. That night, a carrot was cracked apart. 

That night, when the moon is high and the shadows have stretched far, a mask was worn by an ugly girl who sat at the top of the hill in town and quietly traced the printed words of never giving up without a fight with a blistered finger. 

That night, when the tides are high and the sands have sheltered solitude, a book was read by an ugly boy who sat on the shore of the beach in town and quietly traced printed words filled with stories of people who were too good to be true, too kind to live, people who did not exist.)

The boards almost look blue, if the corpse focused looking at them hard enough. Navy, or royal, something deep and rich and lost. 

The sand was soft beneath his feet, dim and dusty crumbs along his boots.

(They are the only things the boy takes off. He removes the boots with nearly steady fingers, untying the laces and placing the pair beside the hills of grain he had quietly gathered between careful, shaky palms and the clutter of firm, cracked sea shells.)

The water is cold, when the corpse takes a careful step into the foam of the ocean. 

The moon watches a boy step into frigid waves.

(The wolf hadn’t been able to sleep, that night. He sat at the bow, sat beneath the stars and snowflakes as he wearily stared into town. 

It was not as though he had not yet traversed the surroundings, had not yet surveyed the land and terrain with his tribe, his pack, his brothers. But that night, the leader of the pack could not help but feel lost when he sat beneath the weeping moon and watched hope dwindle in the stars.

Perhaps it was the trick of the light, an apparition, something that explained the small unmoving figure swallowed by the blank canvas of brittle sand and the bleak expanse of cavernous sea.)

The waters were a bit unsteady, that night. They were a bit uneasy, a bit uneven, against pale ankles. The boy tries not to shift, tries not to escape the shock that dampens the hems of his pants and racks intermittent, involuntary quivers of shivers.

(Involuntary, but consistent. Involuntary, but expectant.)

The waters rocked along the boat, and that wasn’t an issue because it was how things were, but the wolf knew that against the depths and the rocks, the ocean did as they pleased.

(And rightfully so. Beautifully so.)

A child knocked at their doors and the ocean welcomed him with reluctantly open arms.

(It takes him a long time, but eventually, the boy walks further.

It does not take long for the current to dance, nor does it take long for the fear to ebb away for him.

La gently huffs a breath and tells him that he shouldn’t lie. The boy quietly looks away and tells them that they shouldn’t cry.

They hold him very close and try very hard not to shake.)

In the sand, there is a book left open, a half-eaten peach settled as it seeps through the paper. Carrots manage to hold the damp pages into place. 

(The crabs and the cowrie shells settle gently over tiny etched lines. They read the passages and articles with dismissive scuttling as they journey across the muddled illustration.)

The peach is gone, when the dragon wakes, having had long since been eaten by the mollusks and scavengers. The crabs have burrowed beneath the sand, the cowrie shells blown away with a gust or scattered aside with scuttled claws.

(The boots remained, laces carefully tied tight around a crinkled page that had been torn from the book.)

Bits of carrots have been left on the pages. Chewed at, gnawed on, picked at by the birds until beaks are snapping and talons are swiping and the pages they lay on whisper-hiss enough to scare them away.

(It’s the loudest he’s screamed. The dragon was known for his voice on the battlefield, was known for the decisive and firm commands heard across hundreds who were stationed for the great wall, the great leader, the so-called great mission that ripped apart families and people, bit by bit; that morning, when there is no body beneath blankets or within sight, when there is only frantic scrambling and misplaced answers, the dragon can feel the screams and roars rip down the cracked sturdy walls that should have fallen when his son died, should have fallen when his wife, his mother, his nation, his hope-)

The ship is as silent as a graveyard. A mausoleum. A tombstone. 

(The waves creep into shore.)


End file.
